Part 27 (1/2)

Lain returned to the spot outside the town where the others were waiting. There were more questions that could have been asked. More warnings that could have been delivered, but time was short. It was unwise to leave Ether and Ivy alone together. When he discovered them, they were predictably exchanging harsh words, though mercifully in whispers.

”There you are. Tell her what you told me. That you just wanted her to be a distraction,” Ivy insisted, her teeth chattering.

”Do not indulge her madness,” Ether said.

”It is true,” Lain stated flatly. ”You served your purpose. The situation is in hand.”

Ivy stuck out her tongue at Ether, who stood with a stern look on her face, speechless.

”You relied upon my failure?” she scoffed. ”How could you leave something of such importance to so remote a chance?”

Lain ignored the statement, continuing. ”Be silent until the weapon shop closes. One of the humans inside may be persuaded to help us.”

”That is spectacularly unlikely. All in attendance seemed unified in their desire to prevent the expedient repair of that weapon,” Ether warned.

Lain remained silent. He crouched and slowly lulled himself into the trance that had come to replace sleep for him. Ivy huddled near to him against the cold, finally placing her head on his shoulder and dropping off to sleep. After staring at the scene with growing disgust, Ether took a seat on the ground and s.h.i.+fted to water, and soon after ice.

A few hours pa.s.sed. His body at rest, Lain's mind remained active. He closed his eyes, his ears vigilant even in rest. Thoughts lingered in his mind. He thought of the dangers that he still faced, the tasks that still lay before him. Slowly, doubt began to grow.

He should have killed Desmeres. He could not be trusted. He should not be waiting here, it was a waste of very precious time. He should have left Ether. She is unpredictable and uncontrollable. His judgment was failing him. His skills were failing him. The end was coming, and swiftly. For the first time in his life he had something to live for, something besides his vengeance to keep him going, but it was clouding his mind. He was making mistakes. If he continued to make these mistakes, he would be killed. If he was killed, Ivy would die. The last real hope for his kind, possibly the last living member of his race, would be gone.

Lain tried to force the thoughts away. Doubts were a death sentence. If there was one thing he had learned in all of his life, it was that the past is past. The only thing that matters is the future. If one does not believe entirely in one's choices, then one has already failed. He had to stay focused on his tasks. The greatest danger in the warrior's sleep was the threat of being consumed by the darkest aspects of the mind, the thoughts that too often drifted to the surface. Those who slipped too far awoke to madness, or not at all.

Distantly, the sound of a door opening signaled an end to the trance. Quickly his body awoke, fatigue reduced greatly. He rose to his feet, ignoring the stiffness and soreness. Ivy was jarred awake by the suddenness and gazed drowsily at her friend.

”What is going on?” she asked.

”Stay hidden. I will return soon,” he said.

Before she could object or reply, he was gone. Lain's movements were barely affected by his injuries anymore. A few more hours entranced would restore him completely. As he slipped silently from shadow to shadow, a feeling of familiarity, of comfort came over him. Stalking a target. This is what he knew. This was his life. He moved to the rooftops. With snow on the ground, he would leave footprints. There was no telling how long the repair would take. Footprints where they didn't belong might spark the people's suspicions. That would make remaining hidden more difficult. On the roofs, his movements would leave no trace for the casual observer. Soon he had found what he was seeking. Her scent was strongest here. It was her home. She had stepped inside just moments before. He listened closely. She was not alone. Two children were inside, and another woman. For a few moments more he listened. They complained that they were hungry. Swiftly he darted to the back of the house, dropping down. There was a low door, already half hidden beneath the piling snow on the rear of the house. With a smooth motion he slipped the end of his broken sword between the door and the jam and slipped it up.

Inside, a brace lifted out of place and the weight of the snow began to push the door open. He squeezed through the opening and pushed the door silently shut, sliding the brace back in place. The room was a shallow bas.e.m.e.nt. It was stacked nearly to the low ceiling with the firewood it had been dug to hold. A rat scurried away as he navigated the pitch blackness toward the door. On the other side he heard the clang of a heavy pot. The door opened and his target reached in to fetch a few pieces of wood for the fire. Lain pinned himself close to the wall, hidden from the light of the doorway. As she knelt to load her arms with wood, he slipped into the kitchen. The stone chimney that ran up through the center of the house had a warm fire burning. There were openings leading to the den on one side and the kitchen on this side. It provided most of the light, all of the heat, and cooked the food for the home. Here and there, an oil lamp burned. The kitchen was well stocked with pans, pots, and knives. Cabinets were stacked with clay dinnerware. This was a well provided for home. A narrow door to one side of a counter led to a pantry, similarly filled with roots, vegetables, bread, and smoked meats. He slipped inside and silently shut the door.

In the other room, the children were arguing loudly. She shouted at them as she opened the darkened pantry and stepped inside, holding a lamp. Lain maneuvered behind her, unseen, and slowly shut the door. The sound drew her attention, but Lain easily remained behind her, reaching across and s.n.a.t.c.hing the lamp away with one hand and covering her mouth with the other.

”Silence,” he hissed voicelessly as he lowered the lamp and extinguished it.

She obeyed, the room plunging into darkness.

”When you were young, your parents told you a tale. They told you of the day that freedom was gained in exchange for a single favor. That favor was the duty of your family to perform. Generation to generation it would be pa.s.sed down until the day that it would be repaid. Today is that day. Do you understand?” he asked in a bare whisper.

She nodded.

”Good. On the floor beside you, you will find the pieces of a sword. A very special sword. You have seen the weapon before and refused it. You shall take this weapon to your employer, Flinn, and present it to him. It must be reforged. Convincing him to do so will not be difficult. It must be finished in no more than a week. Convincing him to part with it will be difficult, but that is not your task. You must simply ensure that he begins work on the piece, reveal where the work shall be done, and bring the finished piece back here. Do this, and the debt is lifted. If I am satisfied, you will know, and your children need not hear the same tale. Do you agree?” he asked.

Again she nodded.

”Good,” he said.

As the door opened, she turned quickly to see the face of the intruder, but he was gone. She pushed the door open, light flooding in from the fire. On the floor was a sword. As the children, two boys, chased each other around the house, the older woman came into the kitchen. There was a distant, disturbed look on the young woman's face.

”The boys are hungry, I hope . . . is something wrong?” she asked.

”Mother. Watch them for just a bit longer. There is something I need to finish,” she said, stooping to collect the blade.

After carefully stowing the weapon, she put her heavy clothes back on and ventured outside. She traced the path she took every morning to the personal workshop of Flinn. Only she and a few of the apprentices new precisely where it was. It was near to the town, but tucked into a small alcove near the mouth of an ancient mine. He was enormously secretive about his work and valued his privacy. He even redirected the chimney of his workshop into the mine, lest someone see smoke rising and find him when he was working. Once a day she and the apprentices would deliver any supplies he needed and provide the day's projects, as quite often days would pa.s.s before he left the place for his home. She fumbled for the key that only she and her employer held. Unlocking the door and pus.h.i.+ng it open, she entered. It was broiling hot inside, as always, and the air was choked with smoke thanks to the less than effective performance of his subversive chimney.

”What is it, Jessica?” called Flinn.

He was a stout, bearded man, perpetually smudged with the black of coal and stained with some dye or another. He was sitting at a cluttered, poorly lit table, etching intricate designs onto the wide blade of a heavy ax.

”I have a sword for you to work on,” she said.

”I have quite enough to do, miss. Enough to fill months. I've told you that already. Take it away,” he ordered.

”Please, sir. This is terribly important,” she begged.

”Important?” he said, puzzled. ”And just how important? I've been offered fifteen hundred gold pieces for the battle ax of the Baron's eldest son. I dare say that is quite important.”

”It is a sword. It needs mending,” she said.

”Mending? Good heavens, girl, I do not mend swords! I have apprentices for that! You should know better than to suggest it!” he said.

”Please, just look at it, sir,” she pleaded.

Flinn looked up with a frustrated gaze. The desperate look in his chief a.s.sistant's eyes was enough to convince him that this was not something that would be easily brushed aside.

”Give it here,” he said with a sigh, putting out his hands.

She placed a coa.r.s.e cloth in his hands and uncovered the weapon. The instant the light hit it, his attentions locked onto it. He lifted the tip and examined the runes. Turning it, he looked closely at the break, running his fingernail along the layers.

”This is . . . Desmeres' work. Where did you get this?” he quickly demanded.

”It was left by a messenger. The work must be finished in one week. He will collect it from me,” she said.

”One week? Nonsense. A masterpiece like this is to be studied. I need months. No. Years. I must have it. Find the owner and make an offer. Any price he requires. No. Better, bring him here. I need to know where he found the weapon. Yes. I must see this person,” he said.

”I am quite sure you will meet him. I am not certain you can avoid it,” she replied.

”Good, yes. Excellent,” he said, distracted.

Flinn cradled the weapon like a child and carried it to his work table, sweeping it clear with a motion of his arm. Priceless weapons and tools clattered to the ground as he placed the object of his sudden obsession down carefully. His a.s.sistant opened the door and stepped outside. The dim flickering light from inside fell upon the path she had made through the still falling snow. A few paces further was a solitary pair of footprints. There were no steps leading to them, and none leading away. They were facing the door. Simultaneously a chill of fear swept through her and a decades old weight was lifted from her shoulders. He had been there. He had seen where the work would be done. Her family's debt was nearly repaid. She returned home.

Inside, Flinn looked over the sword with a maddened eye. Fumbling through a nearby drawer, he spread a small pile of parchment on the table. He retrieved a bottle of ink and a quill and began to transcribe the runes from the blade to the paper, then a sketch of the cross section and profile of the blade. A small puff of cold air escaped his notice. He held up the hilt end of the sword and judged its weight, testing the edge with his thumb. When he reached for the quill again, it was gone, as was the page of notes.

”No. Where is it?” he growled, placing the sword carefully on the table and stooping to search the floor.

After sifting through the tools he had thrown on the floor, he stood again. The sword was gone. In its place was a single piece of paper, scrawled with a message: Repair the sword in seven days, keep what you learn as payment. Fail and lose both of your prizes.

Reading the last line, he cast a panicked look to a display case above the door to the rest of the workshop. It was empty. It had held a small dagger. The first of Desmeres pieces he had found. The techniques he had gleaned from it had changed his life. The weapons he began to produce, pale imitations at best, were head and shoulders above any other weapons for sale, and he had still only scratched the surface. The subtler nuances were still revealing themselves as recently as that month. He turned back to his work table. The broken sword, the dagger, and the notes were waiting for him. A chill wind swept past him again. He sat at the table, hunched over his work as though guarding it from grasping hands, and returned to his task.