Dragon's Light

CHAPTER 1

HIS LUNGS BURNED AS HE stumbled down the unfamiliar path. He ran without pausing to catch his breath. The light from the early morning sun blinded his eyes as he rushed down the mountain trail lined with scrub brush. The smell of heat and dust and his own nausea almost made him give up in exhaustion, but he knew he couldn’t go back. His heart pounded in his chest like a hammer on an anvil. His head hurt. The sweat dripped from his curly blond hair. He had to stop to vomit the meager meal he’d eaten only hours ago. This was his only chance at freedom. Sconder wouldn’t give up now. Not when he was so close to achieving what no one else had ever done, escape from the mines. His legs felt like they had been too close to the fire of the forge his master had him tend day and night, but Sconder pushed them onward. He stumbled and fell but rose again in an almost fluid movement as he picked up speed on the descent.

As he paused at the top of a small rise, in the distance, Sconder could barely make out what he hoped signaled a band of trees, darker than the surrounding vegetation. His vision started adjusting to the harsh light of what the dwarves called the outside. Sconder had only seen outside once since entering the mines twelve maker’s days ago. He had little memory left of the family that sold him into the care of the dwarf, Arnol. He could only remember the endless days of work, gathering the furry fungus that burned hotly in the forge, shoveling the black rock that held the heat and turned the flames into an almost living thing, and the steady pounding at the forge.

He did remember the difference between the slaves and the masters. As a slave he never received mistreatment. His master, Arnol, made sure he had food to eat, a warm place to sleep, and clothing to wear. Arnol is the finest gem crafter of all the dwarves under the mountain, not the wealthiest, nor the poorest of the dwarves. He made sure Sconder could read Dwarfish and the language of the traders. The lessons were sometimes harsh and Arnol didn’t like it when Sconder tried to make excuses for not mastering the assigned work. Sometimes it meant going without the evening meal or extra hours feeding the forge. Slaves went where they were told, did what they were told, and asked no questions. Sconder had heard that some masters beat their slaves, but not Arnol. Instead, he used work as a punishment. He never chained Sconder. In fact, he often became so absorbed in his work that Sconder could sneak away unnoticed and explore the many caverns in the underground Dwarfish city.

Sconder grew strong tending the forge day after day. He did not grow into a large boy, in fact many commented on how lean and hungry he looked. He did not hunger for food. He craved the freedom that the traders had to travel and make their own way in the world. Sconder knew his debt to Arnol would never be paid. He thought that without escape, he would remain a slave until his death, like many of the slaves before him. He’d heard stories about slaves buying their freedom, but had never met one. He determined in his heart that he would live free. To that end, he devised a plan. Over the course of several weeks, Sconder prepared for his escape.

While gathering the fungus in the far reaches of the cavern he and Arnol called home, he found a few broken and discarded cooking utensils. They looked serviceable but had no handles. Age and dampness had rotted away the wood leaving the prongs of a fork, the bowl of a large ladle, and the blade of an ornate carving knife. Only metal survived for long in the damp caves, and that showed signs of wear, too. He guessed that whoever tossed these didn’t have the time to have them repaired or perhaps they had just been left behind by the previous dweller in this part of the caverns. Sconder hid the discovery from Arnol and determined to repair and sell the cooking tools for money to fund his escape. Sconder had watched Arnol many times at the forge and knew just the right temperature used to melt the raw ore into liquid metal. Sconder spent days chipping out patterns in the soft stone used to cast the rings and brooches that were the craft of the gem setters like Arnol. But these patterns weren’t for rings, they were for the handles of the tools he’d found. Weeks passed and Sconder thought he’d never have a chance to use the forge without Arnol’s knowledge.

More observant than a typical dwarf, Arnol noticed Sconder watching and learning at the forge. He knew that in time, Sconder would be ready to be on his own. It was not out of need for a slave that Arnol had taken in Sconder so many years ago. Sconder’s parents had become homeless when war came into their homeland. Without a home and land, they could not afford to feed and care for the toddler Sconder, so they sought out the safest place for their young child. There was no place safer than the mines and home of the dwarves. No one had ever ventured into the mines and attacked the hard fighting army of the dwarves. It amazed Arnol at first that these humans would entrust the upbringing of their son to him, a gem crafter of modest skill and wealth. Seeing the wisdom of their decision and the love they held for their young son, he knew what he must do. Arnol took Sconder into his home and life. He never treated Sconder as a slave, but rather as a young apprentice that needed correction and instruction. Arnol knew that living among his warlike brethren would harden Sconder, perhaps just enough to be able to survive in the harsh world of men.

Sconder learned the language of the dwarves and the language of men. His brethren thought this foolish, but Arnol knew that this skill would be of the utmost importance for Sconder to have a future outside the mines. As Sconder approached his sixteenth maker’s day, Arnol saw him as a young man rather than a child. He knew the time was short and he must make the final preparations for Sconder to learn the lessons he’d need in the coming weeks. Arnol invited traders to his forge more and more often. They shared stories about their travels to which Sconder listened with rapt attention. Arnol intentionally fueled Sconder’s desire for freedom. Much like a mother eagle pushes their young from the nest to teach them to fly, Arnol pushed Sconder, again and again, seeking for Sconder to take flight on his own, no longer relying on Arnol for food, clothing, and the comforts of home. Sconder’s notion of being a slave blinded him to Arnol’s intentions. It truly broke Arnol’s heart to force Sconder into action, but he knew it must be done. It was time.

Arnol knew something of import loomed on the near horizon. His carving tools mysteriously disappeared one night and then just as mysteriously re-appeared the next day. Only Sconder could be responsible. This pleased Arnol, although he carefully hid that fact from Sconder. The young man was finally taking action. At the beginning of the Spring season outside the caves, Arnol made excuses to be away from the forge for short trips to meet with traders, hoping Sconder would take advantage of this opportunity. Returning from his last trip, Arnol noticed the forge had been used, but made no mention of this to Sconder.

Sconder had used the forge to fashion beautiful handles onto the discarded utensils. Now that he had them completed, he faced a tougher problem. How would he sell them without telling Arnol about them? What could he do? He thought of running away and selling them at a nearby village, but he didn’t know how much they were worth or where a village could be found. He thought of meeting secretly with one of the many traders, but felt it would be too risky. Word would get back to Arnol. In a moment of desperation, he decided to show them to Arnol and ask him to trade them for his freedom. Surely, they were worth more than a lowly slave. The golden handles shone brilliantly in the soft glow of the firelight.

The very next morning, before firing the forge for the day, Sconder brought out the utensils and presented them to Arnol. At first Arnol didn’t understand. Were they a gift from a trader as reward for some project he had completed? Were they payment? The craftsmanship appeared exquisite. The delicate scrollwork on the golden handles depicted a fine spider’s web design, with raised edges that aided in gripping the utensil. He only discerned a problem in the prongs of the fork and bowl of the spoon. They appeared to have been pitted from age or abuse. It suddenly occurred to Arnol that these were the products of Sconder’s labor at the forge.

What are these? he asked Sconder.

These are for you Master Arnol. I made them at your forge. What can you sell them for? Sconder asked.

Ah. There is a small market for work such as this. I could probably find a buyer to trade for two or three bags of flour, or maybe a small ham or two.

Sconder felt disheartened. He knew that the price of a ham would never be enough to buy his freedom. But the handles are made from some of the finest gold. And the spider web design. I created this myself.

Yes and fine workmanship it is, but in these troubled times, a sturdy spoon or fork made from twice hardened tin would be more useful. Only the wealthy could afford to use a golden handled ladle. I’m afraid there is little hope of selling this or trading it. Perhaps the handles could be melted down and crafted into a fine ring or a delicate chain. There is a ready market for those. You seem to have a great skill at working with this metal. Would you be willing to learn more?

At first, Sconder fumed inside. His hard work meant nothing to the pragmatic dwarf. He felt he would never escape the drudgery of the mines. But then he caught a glimmer of hope. Arnol had offered to teach him, not as a slave, but as an apprentice. Apprentices got to go outside the mine. After all, they had to load and unload the pack animals carrying goods to trade. Being outside meant Sconder would be one step closer to freedom.

Yes, replied Sconder, I will learn everything you can teach me about gem crafting, making jewelry, and using the forge.

From today, you are my apprentice. Now, apprentice, fire up the forge, we have work to do and orders to fill.

Pleased and amazed at the skill Sconder had gained on his own by just observing, Arnol smiled in an almost un-dwarvenlike manner. Now, with an opportunity to hone his technique and learn even more, Arnol felt Sconder would have a chance in the world of men. He’d know a trade that would serve him in times of peace and in times of war. He would train Sconder to be more than just a gem crafter. He would be a master of the forge, with the knowledge of how to make the finest jewelry and the sturdiest armor. But the time until he knew Sconder would depart shortened and Arnol had much to pass on to Sconder before he no longer had the chance.

The months passed as Sconder studied under the strict tutelage of Arnol. Sconder rarely left the heat of the forge. No longer did he gather fungus or explore the caverns. His days were spent heating metal ores and forming them into delicate wire. The wire Arnol skillfully wove into a fabric. Often, Sconder would act as a mannequin and Arnol would shape the fabric around his body. Sometimes, it felt as if the fabric retained the heat of the forge. Other times it felt as cold as ice having just been plunged into the cooling waters used to temper the metal. Through it all, Sconder grew in knowledge and talent. And still, his desire to be free of the mines burned in his heart.

Sconder never had the chance to leave the mines as Arnol’s apprentice. Arnol wanted someone to watch over his forge and take orders for goods if he had to be away. Sconder became restless once again. Arnol returned from a trading excursion and showed Sconder several fine gems he had acquired. Two he gave to Sconder. A fine red ruby and a coal black diamond. This perplexed Sconder.

Master Arnol, why are you giving these to me?

They are yours. I sold the cooking utensils you made so many months ago. They fetched a fair sum. This is your share.

Thank you. Sconder didn’t know what to think. He’d never heard of a Master sharing his profits with his slave, for Sconder still thought of himself as Master Arnol’s property. With the gems in his possession, and the skills he now had, Sconder felt ready to make his escape. He only needed to wait for the right time. Spring, he thought. Yes, I can wait until Spring.

Arnol saw the spark in Sconder’s eyes when he gave him the gems. He knew then that the time for training had ended. Sconder would be leaving soon. Arnol smiled, yes he is ready; he will be fine. I have taught him well. He is strong. He is smart. He’s not like so many other men. He will lead others to be extraordinary. Master Arnol was very wise for a dwarf.

Sconder made preparations once more for escape. He waited until the first traders of the spring had come. Arnol went away very early one morning to meet with them at the far side of the mine when Sconder decided the time had come to leave this place that had been his home for more than twelve summers. He left a note for Master Arnol that simply said I must live free. Thank you and good bye.

When Arnol returned, he knew something was amiss. He saw that the forge fire extinguished and a note lying on the anvil. He read Sconder’s farewell message and began to weep. Not tears of bitterness or regret, but tears of joy for the hope of the young man he thought of as a son. Out loud to himself, he said words none other had ever heard him say, I love you. You are a man now. You’ll do just fine. With tears still streaming down his craggy face, Master Arnol began firing up the forge to begin a new day. No alarm sounded. No one cared much about one escaped slave or run-away apprentice. No one but his adopted father and mentor, Master Arnol.

Onward. Sconder knew that stopping almost certainly meant capture. Surely by now Master Arnol had returned from his meeting with the traders and would be raising the alarm. Sconder half expected to see dozens of armed dwarves boiling out of the cave entrance high up on the mountain face he’d just left. No time to rest. If the dwarves didn’t come out in the daylight hours, surely they’d track him at night. Downward he traveled.

When he reached the dark line of trees he almost ran headlong into one, so abruptly did the line of trees appear. He paused once again to take in his surroundings. He removed the sheer cloth he’d been using to shield his eyes from the glare and realized he could now see without squinting too much. The trees were almost white with smooth bark and gently swaying branches. The wind touched his skin with a new sensation for him. The pouch he’d tied inside his shirt pressed against his chest and seemed to bounce with every beat of his heart. It felt heavier now than when he’d placed the two gems inside the pouch and hidden it for safekeeping under a rock by the forge so long ago.

What made him think of them now? Why did the pouch feel so heavy? Gently removing the pouch and pulling the drawstrings apart, he spilled the contents into his hand. Sconder became very afraid at what he saw. Not two gems, but ten. Black, red, blue, green, yellow, purple, pink, orange, clear, and white. All sparkling in the sun. Some large, some small. All cut and polished. Some round, some square. Obviously the work of a master gem cutter. How could this be? Was Master Arnol setting him up as an escaped slave and a thief? Did he grab the wrong pouch when he left? Should he return to the mines? The thoughts raced through his head and he discarded the notion of returning almost immediately. I’m a run-away slave and now a thief, he said aloud. He could never return. He needed to put more distance between himself and his imagined pursuers.

Making his way through the trees, the thorns and brambles caught at his clothing and scratched at his exposed skin slowing Sconder’s progress. The thorns rarely penetrated his flesh, hardened like boiled leather through constant exposure to the heat of the forge. Sconder’s callused hands made short work of most branches that sought to block his path. Pausing to look back once more at the path he’d trod, Sconder decided to slow himself down and be more careful about the trail he was leaving through the woods. Looking more closely at his surroundings, he spied a narrow path that meandered through the worst of the brush. He surmised it must have been a trail cut by repeated use of some wild animal, maybe a deer or perhaps a boar. He’d read about the animals in the outside in the books and parchments Master Arnol made him study over and over again.

Crouching to his hands and knees, Sconder crawled along the animal path for what seemed like hours. Looking back again, he felt pleased. Only a very skilled hunter would be able to determine he had passed this way. Now he felt more confident in the chance of escape. Dwarves were not known as skilled hunters. They were craftsmen and warriors. Continuing on the path Sconder came to an abrupt halt as the trees and brush ended. Sconder looked out on what he knew to be a river.

Now what do I do? Sconder waded carefully into the water. It was cold and he slipped often on the slimy rocks under his feet. He continued forward until the water rose to almost arm level. The water appeared to be getting even deeper and he saw he wasn’t even half way across the river. There must be a place to cross, he thought. As he turned to retrace his steps back to the edge, suddenly he lost his footing and was plunged beneath the chilling waters. Panic. The swift water carried him further downstream and into deeper water. Sconder flailed his arms and kicked himself to the surface every time his feet touched the bottom of the river. He was moving faster, barely keeping his head above water to breathe.

Still caught in the grips of the river, as his head surfaced, he thought he heard someone laughing. Why would someone laugh at a person battling in a struggle for life and death? His anger forced him to turn his head until he could make out the outline of a person a little downstream pointing at the rocks he was rapidly approaching.

Stand up! he heard.

Again, he turned to see the figure on the shore. It was a girl. She was wading into the stream toward him. Stand up before you drown.

It was at this point that Sconder realized he was no longer in deep water. As the water picked up speed, the water had lessened in depth. At several places in the river, he could see rocks protruding from the surface of the water. He turned facing the oncoming water, felt his feet touch the bottom, and stood. The water was still pushing against him, but it was only waist deep. He turned to see the girl making her way back onto the far shore out of the water. Cautiously at first, Sconder began making his way toward the shore where the girl had just clambered out of the water and disappeared over the embankment.

Sconder reached the shore, pulled himself over the top of the embankment and scanned the area for the girl. He lifted himself to his feet and began searching the area for signs of her passage. Nothing. No sign she was even here. Did he only imagine her? He trudged along the bank for a few minutes before remembering he was being pursued and must flee as fast and far as he could. The dwarves would be coming soon. It was late afternoon and the light was beginning to fade. Sconder was cold and hungry but he knew that a fire would be a beacon to draw his pursuers down upon him. No fire, he thought.

Sconder didn’t remember falling asleep. He’d slogged further away from the riverbank in his damp clothes. His hand clutched the pouch at his chest with the ten beautiful jewels. He lay between two large blocks of cut stone near what looked like an old trader’s path, somewhat overgrown, but still visible, even in the dark. It was full night now. How long had he slept? Sconder had little trouble seeing clearly in the dark. His years in the semi-darkness of the caves had accustomed him to using the little light he could see to make his way around. Traveling this path would be the fastest, he thought. He’d just have to keep to the edges and remain alert. His brief rest had renewed some of his strength, but he needed food soon, the noise from his stomach kept reminding him he hadn’t eaten since very early in the morning. Not that the two small pieces of bread were enough for a meal, but he didn’t want to steal from Master Arnol. He remembered the gems once more. What am I going to do?

CHAPTER 2

NOT FAR FROM WHERE SHE had seen the boy in the river, Sparwe sat with her legs crossed and her arms resting gently on her knees. Focus, she thought. Calm your mind. But it was no use. She was never one to be able to sit quietly and meditate on her future. As often as her teachers had instructed her, it was just not going to happen. Instead, she got up to her feet, adjusted the sword on her back, and began to pace the area in front of the small fire she’d coaxed into existence only a few minutes before.

Sparwe picked up the stick she’d used to roast the tasty little fish that was her dinner. She stooped and began to draw designs in the dust around the campfire. Action. This is what calmed her mind. Always in motion. Not sitting and waiting for things to happen. She rose and waved the stick about as a sword in the air and remembered a time when the sword she used really was a stick. How many times had she wanted nothing more than to have her own sword? As the youngest of seven siblings, she had the longest to wait. Swords were very expensive, even for the Zobena, the people of the sword. Her family was not one of the wealthiest of the Zobena, so she had to wait her turn for everything. And wait she did. For eight summers, after giving her the wooden sword, her older brother had drilled into her the importance of holding the sword just the right way. Never letting your sword get dirty, or use it except for battle. She slept with her sword, the wooden one, even then.

Her siblings took delight in teaching her. She was bruised and bloody almost daily at first. They never used their real swords on her, but with years more of experience and training, they beat her handily in the beginning. She recalled the look of surprise on her oldest sister’s face when in a deft move she dodged a blow meant for her head and smacked her sister on her backside. The surprise turned to fury as all the others laughed at her sister’s plight. Sparwe was overpowered that time, and beaten severely by her sister, but after that, rarely did she let any of them strike her again. She learned defense better than any of her siblings. They knew only attack and brute force. She was graceful and had a finesse with the sword that none could match.

Sparwe longed to explore the world. Her siblings were content to stay close to home and live as they always had, serving in times of war, and reliving those battles over and over in stories by the fire. The people they served provided food, so why change?

Sparwe saw much in the stories that others missed. When she commented on how battles could have been avoided and lives saved, her siblings dismissed her as being weak or cowardly. But her mother noticed that Sparwe was different. Before her mother’s death, she encouraged Sparwe to seek out the monks and clerics that were opposed to war and violence. Sparwe wanted to, but she also wanted to fit in with her siblings. They were all the family she had left. She was Zobena. She was tied to the life of the sword.

This trip she had taken was an excuse to get away from her life. But her life came with her. She felt it pressing on her back. The sword. It was not a new sword. Or one as finely crafted as those of her brothers and sisters. But it was hers. She had earned it. Sparwe recalled the day she received the sword from her oldest brother. To him it was a simple gesture with little meaning.

Sparwe, come here. I have something for you. I got this from a trader. He tossed the worn wooden scabbard containing the sword to Sparwe in an offhand gesture.

Sparwe was enthralled. Her own sword. A real sword. Now, she thought, I truly am Zobena. Her sword did come with a price though. Sparwe was assigned to travel with a merchant on his trip to the mountains in the east. At first, Sparwe thought this would be an adventure, but after three weeks of traveling with smelly animals and even smellier merchants, she was ready for home. Often the merchants would talk of their travels and the deals they made. More often they laughed about cheating the farmers and other merchants out of their goods and the huge profits they made at the expense of others. This disgusted Sparwe, but she kept this to herself, because she had a responsibility to protect these merchants. She thought that the merchants were very much like her siblings. They were only concerned for themselves.

Upon arrival at the traders’ destination, Sparwe said her farewells, collected the meager pay she was due, and departed back the way she had come. But, she didn’t want to return home right away. They wouldn’t be expecting her for a few weeks at the earliest. Now was the time for her to do some exploring. She’d heard of a small monastery somewhere to the south of the route she’d taken with the traders. They avoided it. No good deals there, they all said, Nothing but a few priests and goats. Priests and goats, she thought. This was just the adventure she was looking for.

Today had been a bit different than the last few days for Sparwe. She had caught a few small fish in the river and was preparing to get underway once again toward the monastery. She cleaned and wrapped her fish for travel. After traveling along the river for a short distance, she saw a boy wading out into the current. What is he doing? He can’t cross there, the water is too deep, the current too swift. Before she could shout a warning, he’d disappeared beneath the water and was being swept downstream. Wading into the river and watching him being carried by the water, Sparwe traced his path and realized he would soon be in shallow enough water to cross the river. But he didn’t appear to be making any progress and seemed unaware that he could simply stand up. She let out an involuntary laugh and then shouted out to the boy.

Stand up! Stand up before you drown! She yelled out to him. Still chuckling quietly to herself, Sparwe watched as the boy righted himself in the river and began slowly making his way toward the near shore. She could see he was no longer in any danger. Sparwe turned and continued southward on the overgrown trader’s path for some distance before nightfall. There she made camp, roasted the four small fish from her days catch, and ate two of them in silence. She carefully wrapped the last two roasted fish, and saved them for her breakfast.

Again she felt the weight of sword pressing on her back. She removed the sword from the scabbard and examined it closely in the fading firelight. After adding a few sticks to the fire, Sparwe began rummaging in her pack for her sharpening stone. Just the act of sweeping the smooth stone across the blade had an almost hypnotic affect on Sparwe. Swish. Swish. Swish. From the hilt to the tip. Swish. Swish. Swish. The gentle rhythm was helping her gather her thoughts once again. She had her own sword. But what did this really mean? Was she like her siblings? Was she something different? Why didn’t she feel the call to battle and strife as they did? She had been born into the Zobena, the people of the sword. Is this all there is to life?

Sparwe remembered her father telling her about her name. She was only four or five years old and he was home from the war for a brief visit. There was always a war someplace it seemed.

Sparwe, Sparwe, Sparwe, your name fits you. You fly here and there, never resting for more than a moment. You are my little bird.

His smile was the thing she remembered most about her father. That and the times he tossed her into the air so she could really fly. Her dark hair moving in every direction as she floated weightless at the apogee of her flight. He was gone now. He’d been gone for more than six seasons. Moisture filled her dark eyes, but she did not cry at his memory. Her oldest brother led the family now.

She was the youngest of seven children. Her sisters all thought she was spoiled. Her brothers barely tolerated her. They had little time for her and so she spent much of her early years observing her family from the shadows. She stayed out of their way as much as possible. Often, they were cruel to her. Her mother protected her when she could, but also knew that Sparwe would have to endure the minor torments of her siblings in order to grow tough enough to survive, not just within the family, but within the harsh world. Being Zobena, all that her family really knew was conflict. If there was no war or battle to be fought in distant lands, then they generated their own conflict at home. It was their nature.

Sparwe was different from the rest of her family. She avoided conflict. Her siblings saw this as weakness and used it to attack her as often as possible. Sparwe deflected their attacks and learned from them. Now, finally away from them, at least for a while, Sparwe felt lost. The lack of conflict left her uneasy. She’d never known peace and did not know what to do. Maybe she was more like them than she thought.

Swish, pause, swish. Sparwe continued to sharpen the already razor sharp blade. The hilt was wrapped in silken thread, wound tightly to form a delicate woven pattern. The colors of the thread had faded to a dull colorless tan. Countless hours of use and human sweat had bleached the once vibrant colors on the sword. She tried to imagine the craftsman that built this blade. How long did he work at the forge, hammering out the shape of the blade? Was this one of many he’s done? Was it a gift for someone or just one more weapon for the merchants to sell? What were the original colors on the hilt? Swish, pause, swish.

The sword rested gently in her lap. What was this sword’s history? Had it seen battle? Had it been used to attack? Or was it used to defend the innocent? There were no clues as the source of the sword. Her brother had gotten from the merchant, who passed no story on with the sword. It was just a sword. Just as she was simply an ordinary girl.

Replacing the sword into the scabbard, Sparwe noticed how smoothly it slid into its sheath. Only a whisper of sound and a slight click when the sword hilt met the metal reinforcement at the edge of the opening. The scabbard itself was finely crafted. No seam was evident on the deep brown lacquered surface. An embossed metal cap at the tip and the metal at the opening were the scabbard’s only decorations. The straps for carrying the sword were leather tied securely around the scabbard at the balance point and near the hilt of the sword. Sparwe had fashioned these herself. Sparwe tied a small loop of soft leather from the scabbard around the hilt of the sword to secure it in place. Placing the sword beside her bedroll within easy reach, Sparwe lay down and stared at the night sky.

The fire was flickering out, but it was not a cold night. Spring had come into the land with the promise of new beginnings. Tomorrow I should reach the monks at the monastery. And the goats. She was thinking of goats and other smelly beasts as she closed her eyes to a restless sleep.

CHAPTER 3

SCONDER MOVED ALONG THE PATH quietly and paused often to listen for pursuit. He heard the sounds of the crickets and gentle rustlings of small animals, startled by his passage. Sconder had not gone very far when he smelled it. His stomach growled in response to the scent of cooked fish. The smell of fish was fleeting at first but the wind shifted and Sconder got a much stronger scent from just off the path in a small clearing. Cautiously, Sconder moved as silently as possible, following the scent of the fish. Just as he spied the embers of small campfire, his stomach once again made a noise he was sure anyone within 50 feet could hear in the stillness. All the crickets had gone silent. Even the night birds had hushed their muted calls. Sconder stayed motionless for as long as he could at the edge of the small clearing. There was no sign of whoever built the fire or cooked the fish. Just as Sconder realized that someone must still be close by, he was forcefully shoved into the clearing from behind. Rolling clumsily forward, Sconder tried in vain to break his fall and protect himself from attack. But no attack came.

Sconder found himself staring into the darkest brown eyes he had ever seen. He thought it must be the girl he had seen earlier at the river, but it couldn’t be. His attacker had a sword drawn and appeared ready to use it on him. The eyes never blinked and the stance never wavered. Sconder slowly rose to his feet with his hands outstretched to show they were empty.

Why are you sneaking around my camp?

Sconder was astonished. It was the girl from the river. The one he thought he might have imagined. I smelled fish, he said. I’m a bit hungry. I didn’t mean to sneak, but I didn’t know what to expect.

Sparwe looked at the boy and re-evaluated her earlier judgment. Not really a boy, but not quite a full grown man, yet. Obviously, he was not a threat for someone as skilled as she at close combat. He appeared to be genuine. Gesturing for Sconder to sit near the embers of the fire, Sparwe re-sheathed her sword and moved gracefully past him to grab her pack with the fish. She withdrew the wrapped fish she was saving for breakfast and tossed them toward Sconder.

Here, eat these. I was saving them for the morning, but I can see you need them more than I. What’s your name?

Sconder, he managed to say between bites of fish. You?

I’m Sparwe. Why are you roaming out here in the dark? I saw you almost drown today at the river. Are you lost?

Not lost, not really, but I don’t know where I am either. Sconder was licking the juices from the fish off his fingers as he spoke to Sparwe.

Sparwe regarded him with suspicion. How could a person not know where they are and not be lost? What trick is he trying to pull on me? Watching him eat with part of her attention, Sparwe began gathering a few branches to throw on the embers of the fire. Sitting just out his reach on the opposite side of the fire, Sparwe looked closely at him for clues about his motives. He had worn leather breeches, no shoes, a torn jerkin, and something hanging from a cord about his neck. She saw no weapons of any sort.

If you are not lost, then why are you out here so late at night, with no food, no supplies and no weapons? Are you a monk that has taken a vow of poverty?

Sconder had finished the two small fish and was looking intently at his benefactor. No, he thought, not a girl. She was older than he’d first assumed. Probably older than Sconder himself. She carried her sword slung over her back with ease. Her movements were those of a dancer or swordsman, lithe and economical. Sconder had seen dwarves test their blades in mock duels, but they never moved like she did. They were all brute force and strength. She was something different. The blade she carried was nothing like any he’d seen forged in the mines, either. It was long and thin, with only one edge from the hilt to the tip. The tip was squared off in a fashion he’d not seen before. The blade, like its owner, seemed light and very deadly, yet beautiful.

No, I’m not a monk. Suddenly fear overtook Sconder. Fear and a sense that this girl was more than she seemed.

You didn’t answer my question, Sparwe stated flatly. Why are you here?

I’m here to be free. Honesty seemed to be the best course of action for Sconder. Telling Sparwe the truth was the only way Sconder could see her ever trusting him. I’m an escaped slave. I was the property of Master Arnol, a dwarven smith. A crafter of jewelry and metal.

At first, Sparwe was appalled. A slave. No one should have to be a slave to another. Anger rose in Sparwe unbidden. Slavery was one thing she would never condone. There is no honor in owning another person. There can be honor in battle. There can be honor in victory. There is honor in mastering oneself. There is honor in defending the weak. But there can never be honor in owning another’s life. All these emotions flashed across Sparwe’s face in only a fraction of a second, but Sconder noticed, and became a little less fearful.

I will not turn you in. You are safe in my camp. How long ago did you escape?

I left the mountain early in the morning, just before the sky became lighter. I ran for as long as I could. I crawled through the brush, I crossed the river, and now I am here.

I was near this side of the mountain earlier in the day. I saw no Dwarves outside the mountain looking for anyone. Perhaps your master doesn’t know you are gone yet.

Sconder had no answer for Sparwe’s speculation. You might be right, but I don’t want to take the chance of being discovered and taken back. Thank you for the fish. I must leave now. The Dwarves travel mostly at night because they are accustomed to the darkness of the mines. I’ve delayed too long already I’m afraid.

If they can travel at night, then so can we. I’ll come with you. I’ve already rested. The call to action was driving her to make rash decisions. She trusted this stranger. She didn’t know why, but she felt no deceit coming from Sconder.

Sparwe carefully wrapped her bedroll and busied herself about the small campsite. She dowsed the dying fire with dirt and stirred the embers with the stick she’d used earlier to cook the fish. Sconder looked again at the sword at her back and thought that this girl would be handy to have along on his journey. But where was he going to go?

Where should we go? he asked. I don’t remember ever being outside the mountain. My whole life has been near the forge with Master Arnol. I only thought of being free to go where I wanted to go, not about knowing where that might be.

Sparwe didn’t know what to think. She said, So you really are lost. I was heading to the monastery in the south before I met you. That should be as good a place as any for you to go. Are you ready?

Off into the night the two strangers traveled. Sconder led them in the direction Sparwe had indicated. There was no real trail to follow, but the ground was even with few trees or bushes to block their path. After an hour of silent walking, Sconder stopped and turned toward Sparwe with a question.

Your sword, where was it made? It is different than any I’ve seen before. Master Arnol trained me to forge swords for the Dwarves, but nothing as delicate as your sword. May I see it again? Perhaps hold it?

Giving up her sword was like giving up a part of her. Of course Sconder didn’t know what he was asking her to do. I think we should wait until we reach the monastery, maybe then, she replied. The light will be better. We need to keep going.

You’re right. I just can’t stop thinking about how it caught the light. Can you at least tell me where your sword was made?

I don’t know where it was made. I only know it is unlike any of the swords carried by my brothers and sisters. I believe my oldest brother gave it to me because he thought it was not worth much. In an imitation of a gruff old man Sparwe said, an inferior blade, not good for combat, too light to knock a shield from your opponent. Sadly she said, I think he felt it was all I deserved.

Your brother sounds like most of the dwarves, heavy and thick-headed.

They both laughed as they walked in the darkness. Sconder thought her voice was like tinkling bells or the sound of one of the little music pipes the dwarves sometimes used at festival time. It was soft, with just a hint of steel beneath.

As they continued, Sconder asked, Where did you learn to use your sword?

I sometimes think I was born with a sword in my hand. I learned first to use a wooden sword by practicing with my brothers and sisters. We are Zobena.

What is Zobena? he asked.

At first she thought he was making a joke at her expense. The she realized that Sconder really didn’t know about the people of the sword, the Zobena. Zobena means sword, she said plainly. We are the people of the sword. We fight wherever we are paid to fight, although we will only fight for just causes.

Sconder listened intently to Sparwe speaking about her family, her people, and their history. The time passed quickly and he thought the sky was becoming lighter in the distance as they traveled. After Sparwe had fallen silent with no more stories to relate, Sconder paused and asked a question that stabbed at Sparwe’s heart, How do you know when a cause is just?

Sparwe had thought him a simpleton when she first saw him in the river. Now she saw he was much more. She observed his even gait as they walked across the grassland. Sconder had broad shoulders, no doubt from tending the forge for so many years. He was a head taller than she, with piercing blue eyes, and a mop of what she thought was blonde hair. It was hard to tell, as matted as it was. The dip in the river had done Sconder some good though, he smelled slightly better than the merchants she traveled with before, but only slightly better. The lingering aroma of fish was present, too.

His question ended the conversation for several hours as they made their way southward. Sconder was focused on the ground before him and little else. Just after daybreak, Sconder signaled the need to stop and rest. Sparwe dropped to the ground beside him and opened her pack once again. This time she produced a small piece of fruit-bread for each of them. Silently munching on the bread, they stared out across the grasslands. Sconder glanced back the way they had come, but saw no sign of pursuit.

Sconder once again fingered the pouch hanging at his neck. Sparwe noticed the unconscious gesture but made no remark. She was curious, but did not voice her question at this time.

Instead, she said, Now you know about my life, tell me about your family.

There is nothing to tell, Sconder said gruffly as he rose once again to begin their journey. I was sold by my parents to Master Arnol twelve or thirteen summers past. I have worked as his slave for as long as I can remember. I have forgotten what my parents looked like.

That can’t be everything there is to know about you. Did your master mistreat you?

No. I was careful never to offend him. I always completed every task he gave me, even when I saw no point in learning how to read and write in dwarfish or the language of the traders.

I don’t understand. Your Master taught you to read and write.

Yes.

That seems unusual. Wouldn’t that make it easier for you to escape? My brothers never wanted me to learn to read because they thought I’d learn too much. I had already spoken of my distrust of the Kings and crowns that hired the Zobena. By learning to read I was able to read for myself the details of every contract. Not all Kings were honest. Did the other slave masters teach their slaves to read?

I do not know. I was never allowed to meet and talk to the other slaves in the mines. Master Arnol said most of these slaves were there as punishment for breaking the laws of men. They worked in the mines under the supervision of the dwarves. Sometimes they tried to break free, but usually, they just resigned themselves to their fate and dug the black rock used in the forges. Sometimes, I saw the other slaves from a distance. They were chained at the ankle and their masters didn’t allow them much freedom within the confines of the mine.

So these slaves were criminals?

I think so.

And you walked around the mine freely?

Only to gather the supplies needed at the forge and sometimes to watch the other craftsmen and traders.

You mentioned tending the forge. Did Master Arnol ever teach you his craft?

He didn’t teach me until I proved to him I already knew much about operating the forge. I made some cooking utensils from castaways I’d found one day. They needed new handles. I made them. He began calling me his apprentice last spring, but I was still his slave. He gave me two stones from the profits as a reward. Sconder made the same involuntary gesture toward the pouch hanging about his neck.

May I see the stones? Now it was Sconder who was reluctant to share a part of himself with Sparwe.

I will show them to you later, Sconder responded. I learned how to make the forge hot enough to melt even the hardest of metals and purify the ores Master Arnol used. He is a fine jewelry maker and gem cutter working mostly in gold, silver, and precious stones. He sells many rings and trinkets. I liked working with the tougher ores and especially working on armor. Master Arnol made a special armor of woven metal that was as strong as any solid metal armor, yet was as flexible as my jerkin. For hours I worked heating the metal and forcing it through a small hole in a special stone to make the wire that was woven into the fabric. I remember Master Arnol bringing in Master Wik to help him design the special loom for weaving the metal fabric. Master Wik is well known for his fine rugs and woolens.

I have never seen armor like you are describing. It sounds impossible. Was it as heavy as solid armor? Sparwe asked.

It was not quite as heavy, and it did not restrict movement, so wearing it would not tire you so quickly in battle. Master Arnol had completed only one set of this armor in the last two summers. The ore was hard to find and costly. He always said it came from across a great sea, a pool of water bigger than this grassland we cross now. I don’t believe such a thing exists, but Master Arnol had said he’d seen it once in his youth.

I’d like to see such a place as your great sea someday. And this armor, it really exists?

Yes. I have worn it often enough. Master Arnol used me to fit the armor while he wove the pieces together.

Who bought this armor? It must have been worth a fortune.

I know not. One day it was at the forge, the next it was gone. Master Arnol never spoke to me about his business dealings.

We should be approaching the monastery soon. I’m looking forward to a cool drink and speaking to the monks there.

As they topped the next ridge, Sconder saw a small column of smoke rising in the distance, slightly south and east of their current direction. They walked silently on for another hour before Sconder thought he heard bells ringing in the distance. As it turned out, the bells were an alarm to notify the brothers of their arrival. In short order, Sconder and Sparwe saw monks shadowing their movements to their right and to their left. Sparwe seemed a bit taken aback by the somewhat cool reception by the monks she had come to see, but she did respect their caution. They continued toward the monastery unimpeded.

CHAPTER 4

SCONDER AND SPARWE FOUND THE trail leading into the courtyard of the monastery. At the gate they were met by several monks in homespun robes, tied at the waist with white cords. Each of the monks stood passively with no hint of threat or violence. A very old monk, slightly shorter than the others, stepped forward to greet them.

Welcome, travelers. What is it you seek at this place of worship?

Sparwe spoke first, I seek knowledge and I would cherish a cool drink of water after our journey.

Knowledge we have in plenty, but the water, I’m sorry, but our pump is broken, so we have only wine at this moment. One of the brothers has gone to get more water, but has not yet returned.

As the two moved forward toward the monks, the eldest raised his hand to halt them.

Here in this place we do not use names. We simply call ourselves the brethren. I am the eldest. We do not allow weapons in our holy place, so you must surrender them before you may enter. They will be cared for, do not worry, we are not thieves.

Sparwe did not think that these monks could take away her sword in a fight, but she also did not want to offend them. The eldest had said they had knowledge. Sparwe very carefully removed her sword and held it in her out-stretched hands. Quietly, one of the brethren stepped forward, bowed and received the sword with great dignity. Sparwe noticed a slight lifting of an eyebrow on the monk as he took the sword. Did he recognize the sword? Or was it just curiosity? With great elegance, the monk slipped away through an unseen passage to the left of the main gate.

"And you young man, do you not have